


tell me a piece of your history that you've never said out loud

by ToMarsAndBeyond3



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Dghdabigbang2019, Lotta transness bc im trans and i said so, This took so long to uhhhhh write, Trans Martin, Trans dirk, dghdabigbang, have fun, its sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 11:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToMarsAndBeyond3/pseuds/ToMarsAndBeyond3
Summary: 1989.He is sixteen years old. His mother is dead. He is scared. Martin looks to his brother for support.He finds nothing.





	tell me a piece of your history that you've never said out loud

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my Big bang 2019 fic! This story is a rehashing of an older one, complete with new stories and art. It's a lot of exploration of the younger rowdies and their relationships in and out of Blackwing.

**1989**

The rain is only a mild inconvenience.

What is an inconvenience is the way Martin’s shirt has soaked in the rain, the way it’s sticking to his skin and enhancing his dysphoria. He’s cold. He’s wet. He’s aggravated. But he keeps running, jumping over the cracks in the sidewalk as he makes his way through the downpour. He doesn’t have his backpack; he left it at the school for want of a faster way home. Martin turns his head to look at the primary school as he passes, and he smiles.

The twins’ birthday is today, and he was going to make it such an amazing day for them that they would always remember it. It didn’t matter if their M’mma was sick, or if Oz was working too many late hours to keep up rent.

No. This was going to be the best day ever.

The sidewalk starts to to turn into dirt, a large worn path in the ground that turns into and leads down a line of trees. Martin grips his backpack tighter. The mud under his feet is awful… but he wants to get home to help Oz decorate. 

This day had to be good, everything had been so horribly awful as of late.

He gets there, sees his house - an old farmhouse, the farm no longer theirs and leased out to someone else - and slows. There are cars on the lawn, police, an ambulance… and a large smattering of blood lining the front of their house. It's dark, hardly red, like nothing Martin has ever seen before. The twins are there, sitting in the grass and playing a game with sticks; they had been sat behind a wall so that they couldn't see the blood. Martin walked past them. His backpack dropped onto the grass, a look of horror on his face as he got closer.

"Kid-"

"Girl, hey-"

"Leave him alone."

Hands pull Martin back, stopping him from getting any closer and he yells. But that same voice tells him to calm down, and he recognizes those funny little gloves Osmund wears. The yelling dies down a little, and Martin gasps, tipping his head up to look at his brother.

"Ozzy?"

"Hey Dracula, just calm down," Osmund said, rubbing his back. "It's alright."

"Who- Oz who… who's on our wall."

"It's mom."

Martin's world shatters. It breaks off into millions of pieces, his legs shaking and threatening to send him tumbling; he can't breathe, or think. Osmund wouldn't lie. He doesn't lie. Their mom was painted on their front porch like a God damn Christmas decoration and suddenly the world wasn't making sense. A strangled, half angry and half distressed noise comes from his mouth, and Osmund pulls him closer.

"I know, it's okay-"

"Oz-"

"Martin, calm down."

"Mom!"

"Martin!"

The yell makes Martin stop, and he turns around, staring his brother in the face. Osmund's face is flushed, he's tired, and there is something red and sickly on his face. Martin reaches to adjust his own glasses. 

"What's goin' on," Martin asks. His brother will keep him safe, he always has.

When Martin came to him the year before, only fifteen, and told him he wasn't a girl, Osmund listened; he nodded and believed him and helped him tell other people, get new clothes, cut his hair. When M'mma got sick, Osmund left school to get a job to make sure none of them starved or got kicked out of their house. When the twins were born and their dad never showed up for the birth, or ever again, Osmund took himself and Martin to the hospital to wait for their mother. When Martin was six and their dad tried to hit him with the baseball bat for being a freak, for being unnatural… Osmund took it out of his hands and hit him instead.

Osmund would keep him safe.

"I got a new place for us," Osmund said, his hands on his shoulders to keep Martin steady. "A new place. Don't ever gotta worry about food or our house again."

"But, mom-"

"Martin. I got us a new place. Mom tried to hurt me for it."

What? Their mom would never… and she was sick, she couldn't even get out of bed anymore. But there she was, probably lying on the porch in a pool of her own blood.

"You did?" They'd been wanting to move for ages, get away from the cramped house and find a place with some space. Osmund nods.

"Ain't no one gotta tell us what to do there. We're dangerous. We're gonna show 'em they're right, and that we're better."

"We ain't better than other people."

"We are. We can do shit they can't. You can eat people! I can find people!" Osmund is smiling, and Martin focuses in on the red spots on his face. It looks an awful lot like blood, but maybe that's from coming home and finding their mother in this awful state.

"Oh- but, Cole and Katie have their art sh-"

"We don't need them, they're gonna make us slower. We can find a nice place for them."

"No. Oz, what the fuck?"

"Yes."

A loud, earsplitting explosion rang out, and then another. A strangled scream rips from Martin's throat and it isn't out of fear, it's anger, it's fury. He can hear the little bodies dropping and his blood runs ice cold, his vision turns blue, and suddenly he has turned, ducking the life out of the man with the gun standing over his baby siblings. 

Someone comes at him, he takes their life too.

The third person comes when he is all filled up, so he takes a plank of wood from the ground and throws it into their face. The man yells, stumbling backwards, and Martin jumps on top of him.

"Martin!"

"Jesus-"

"Osmund, what the fuck!?"

Osmund gets his arms around Martin, pulling him backwards. They both end up on the ground, Martin kicking and screaming and trying to bite him. A large food appears, gas, getting into his mouth and his eyes and his nose and making his insides burn. He coughs, relaxing a little.

He is tired.

"Fuck, Martin," Osmund said. He rolls over, laying Martin on the grass and pushing the hair from his face. Martin's breaths come shallow and quick, staring up at the sky. "I wanted ya' to help me, not be one'a their things."

"'M not."

"You think they'll trust ya' now? It'll take a long time for me to get them to listen. But don't worry, Marty, I got it."

Martin watches the sky, ignoring Osmund as his voices starts to fade and warp. The rain has cleared, the grey clouds giving way to a blue sky. He can see birds high above, and sunlight comes through the clouds to illuminate his face. It's a perfect, peaceful moment.

It feels like his mother - and his siblings - are trying to comfort him.

He closes his eyes against the warmth of the sun and falls into unconsciousness, hoping they can save him, hoping anyone can.

But no one ever does.

**1991**

There was a dark red sticking out against the white of Martin’s shirt, blood from where he had wiped off his hand. The wall was red too. Martin had hit it until his knuckles were bleeding, but the wall never gave way for holes anymore. The staff members in this dreary fucking place had upgraded the walls after Martin wreaked havoc that first time.

Blackwing.

It turned out Osmund had been working for the CIA, and Martin wasn’t even surprised. The CIA were dirty people, and seeing as Osmund apparently had a god damn murder boner… yeah, Martin wasn’t surprised at all.

They didn’t call him Martin here. They called him Incubus, or boy, or it, or his birth name. That last one was the worst, and anyone who said it got the life drained out of them.

Disgusting people.

He was trying to hide the blood when he broke his skin, but when he heard his door unlocking he knew he probably needed to give up. And sure enough, three guards and two scientists walked through, glancing at the blood and sighing. Martin made a face in return; it was common courtesy.

“Testing,” the tallest scientist said, crossing his arms. Martin didn't respond, and the man sighed. “Please get it to the testing room. I have no time.”

The guards nodded, but the younger scientist looked a little uneasy. 

Martin yelled when the guards grabbed him; if he had to go to testing, he was at least going to make it a pain in their ass. And if he was being honest, Martin was a little frightened. He was frightened of the pain, because whatever sort of test they had for him it was always, without a doubt, painful; and sometimes when he was alone the thought of it would make him shake. Martin would never admit that, and no one else could smell emotional like he could, so there was no one who would ever know but himself and the ghosts of the past. 

He left the room kicking and screaming.

Martin wasn't sure if it could even be called a room if he was being honest. He was locked in, forced to spend every waking hour that wasn't filled with pain in a room so white and bright that it gave him constant headaches. There wasn't anything interesting in that place. Martin was usually left alone for a few days at a time before being fed or tested upon, so he was quite sure that the loneliness was slowly causing him to lose his mind.

Could people like him go insane? Could you lose your sense of self if you weren't human or worthwhile anyway?

The guards that were carrying him brought him to another one of the endless rooms in the horrid maze of the facility. There was a moment, as Martin looked around at the invasive tools and the heaps upon heaps of bad memories that kept jumping out at him, that Martin wanted to open his mouth and drain them all.

God, if he did that, he would be screwed.

The guards tried to force him into the chair, but Martin - who was only eighteen, still a child by all means - became a little too frightened, and he froze up.

“Wait,” he tried; he really didn’t want to do this. 

“Get the fuck-” One of the guards pushed Martin, and he ended up sprawled onto the floor.

“Fuck,” the smaller scientist said, “Mcgregg, don’t do that.”

“I’ll do what I want,” said the guard who had pushed Martin; Mcgregg. The small scientist rolled her eyes.

I'll do what I want.

I'll do what I want.

I'll do what I want.

Martin closed his eyes and blocked out the horrible sights. He couldn't get a hold on himself; he wanted to go home. It should have been a reality, not a pipe dream.

And yet here he was.

"Hey."

The scientists froze, backing up from Martin as soon ad the voice reached their ears. Martin felt… almost relieved, though Osmund being here meant one of two things. Either he was here to hit him or he was here to help him. It seemed it was the latter, because Osmund came up, bending to grab Martin's hand and pull him up to his feet.

"Just what do ya'll think you're doin'?" Osmund wraps an arm around his brother, protective and angry. His tone is dangerous.

"We were ordered-"

"Not push him. Get out."

"But-"

"Out!" The screech that comes from Osmund's throat is inhuman, animalistic. The scientists take a step back, and then without another word they leave. Osmund growls, then turns to check his brother. "What did they do to you?"

"Just pushed me," Martin mumbled.

"You got blood in your clothes? They fuckin' do that?"

"No! I did it myself."

Osmund huffs, letting Martin go so he can fix himself. He seems… a little tamer, worried. Martin pays it no mind.

"They don't call ya' that old name, right?"

"No, you beat it outta them."

Osmund grins, proud and prideful, and crosses his arms. He loves it when he hurts people, scares them. "Good. C'mon, let's get Scott to get you a meal and some new clothes. Then ya' can go and lie down."

"Yeah?" Martin raises an eyebrow. That doesn't sound totally awful, even if he doesn't trust Oz.

"Yeah. And it's your birthday. Got you somethin'."

"It is?"

"Little brother's seventeen now. Congrats." Osmund nods. "Got ya' a book, and some fuckin' glasses. You can't see shit."

Oh.

Martim almost smiles. He shouldn't, he knows, because this is dangerous. His brother works here, has the power to lock him back up at any time. But he misses school, and his family, and the trees and the wind. So he nods at Osmund.

"Cool."

His brother smiles.

**1992**

Martin was staring at the window, unable to get enough of it. The sky was a vivid blue, so bright that it was hurting his eyes, but he hadn’t seen the sky in so long that the pain was bearable and he continued to stare. Birds were sitting on the branches of the trees far below, singing a song of spring that was familiar to Martin, though the tune may have been different. Yes, he vaguely remembered it all, and he was glad for the opportunity to see it.

Nature was something he missed, even though he clashed harshly with it.

It had been a surprising request when Osmund asked the director if Martin could accompany him on a scouting mission with his team, and Riggins had been most displeased. Osmund didn’t care of course, so Martin was standing here; the top floor of a hotel, staring out of a real window in real clothes. 

Boring clothes, but they were clothes. Martin would have preferred something that wasn’t so clean cut. Martin pressed his hands against the cool glass, his breath fogging the window.

“Martin.”

Martin turned as Osmund stuck his head into the room, his hair still wet and sticking to his face from the shower he had taken earlier. His crew out in the main room quieted as he spoke. Everyone went silent when he did, and all for different reasons. His team did it out of respect, and perhaps a healthy amount of fear; Martin did it out of anger. It was a special, deep seated anger that he harbored inside of him, unsure what to do with it. It was a result of the atrocities that Osmund had committed, the lives he had ended in horrible ways.

Martin’s hands clenched and then uncleanched again; he could see the blood on the little faces of his siblings.

“Yeah?” Martin raised an eyebrow. “Murder someone?”

“Not today,” Osmund said, “Why’re ya’ all quiet today?”

“Ain’t your business,” Martin growled, standing up a little taller. He was hitting another growth spurt, and even though he wasn’t on hormones he was nearly as tall as Osmund now.

“There ya’ are.” Osmund pulled the gun from his belt and used it to give a light push on Martin’s shoulder, forcing him back a step.

“What do ya’ want,” Martin huffed.

Osmund shrugged. “Bored. Scared you’d dropped on us.”

Oh, he was scared was he? It was a valid concern. Osmund didn’t actually feel scared or apologetic, and Martin doubted if he ever felt anything at all, but he thought that any normal person would feel these things if they knew about the situation. Martin wasn’t eating. He hadn’t eaten in a month. This was by a design entirely outside of his control, the scientists at Blackwing trying to see how long Martin could go before he absolutely needed to be fed. It was taking a toll on him. He was slower than usual, running out of breath and dealing with a vague, constant sleepiness that would only get worse; there were read streaks, inflamed veins branching out from his eyes and his fingernails that made him look pale and ghastly. A normal person would feel pity for him. The inhumane folks from Blackwing felt nothing.

“I ain’t droppin’,” Martin said with a little bitterness in his voice, “Now it ain’t your business, either.”

“You’re under my supervision,” Osmund drawled, “It is.”

Martin rolled his eyes, going back to staring out of the window. He heard footsteps behind him and braced himself, taking a deep breath.

“It’s New Jersey.” Osmund was right behind him, but now he sounded calmer, a little quieter. It was a tone that Martin almost recognized from years ago. “Ain’t nothin’ but farms ‘round here.”

Martin was silent for a moment, an odd, tight emotion in his chest. “Ma’ wanted to come here. Get space for the twins.”

“Should’a just buried ‘em here, I think,” Osmund hummed. He snorted; how could he be amused? Martin turned and pushed past him, grinding his teeth together. “Hey,” Osmund said, turning after him with a glare, “Where ya’ goin’?”

“Downstairs.”

“Don’t ya’ go leavin’!”

“Fuck off, Ozzy, I won’t.”

Where would he even go? Mars? The moon? Narnia?

The downstairs lobby was bustling with activity, grumpy businessmen and excited weekenders filling the room and making the air buzz with noise. Martin didn’t care for it because he was so angry, and pushed through the crowd to go stand by the back of the hotel. He came to rest by the EXIT door, and then he had to stop and stare.

This was the exit, the way out, and he couldn’t even open it and leave. Where would he go? What reason did he have to leave?

The universe was a funny thing though, and so was fate, because there was an answer to Martin’s questions.

The answer was a fifteen year old boy and his younger brother.

The two children ran into the alley, ducking behind the dumpster and laughing. They were running from someone, it was clear, but they didn't seem to be in any danger. The younger boy pushed the older one, and the older one laughed harder, putting his hand over the boy's head and for a moment, Martin saw a soft blue light appear.

The children were still laughing.

Blue light.

Martin pushed the door open, staring at the older one with a wild sense of awe. The children froze like deer in headlights, watching Martin with wide eyes and a quiet breath.

He could smell hostility.

"Hey-"

The youngest child threw an empty can at him, and Martin ducked. It was a shitty throw, and he had fought worse than an eight year old boy. The boy yelled in frustration and Martin threw a wild glance up to Osmund's window.

"Quiet!"

"You shut-"

"Shh!" 

Martin held up his hands to feed off of them. It wasn't that he was trying to hurt them, he wanted them to quiet down. And they did, it worked; the youngest boy swatted lightly at the dancing colors in the air, and the oldest boy had gone still, his eyes trained on Martin. As the lights faded, the three of them still in silence, Martin still glancing up to the window.

"You're in trouble?" Those were the first words out of the oldest boy's mouth. "Smell all…" He made a vague hand gesture in Martin's direction to finish the sentence and Martin, in his endless foolishness, nodded.

"Maybe."

"Is it bad?"

"Super."

"Wanna come with us instead?"

And it was that easy, because the oldest boy had decided he trusted Martin and Martin had decided the same. They were alike in a way they had never been with anyone else, meant to be friends, meant to know each other. There had never been a time that they had met anyone like themselves. The youngest boy lunged at Martin, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the alley.

"What's you're name," The eldest said, poking Martin's arm.

"Martin."

The eldest made an odd face. "That's a boy's name."

"I am one."

"Yeah okay." He nodded. The eldest boy may not have fully understood why Martin was a boy, but he respected what he said all the same; he could figure it out later. Holding out his hand, he nodded at him. "I'm Cristian."

"I call him Cross," said the littlest boy, letting go of Martin's hand so he could spin in circles as they walked through some trees. "Because he's cross!"

"You're just annoying," Cristian said, rolling his eyes.

"Cross!"

"Cross, huh?" Martin snorted, crossing his arms as he watched Cross pretend to be sick. "Guess that's it, then."

"Elazar!" Cross picked a branch off a tree, tossing it at the little brother who jumped out of the way. "Now look!"

"Cross," the boy jeered, running ahead of them and disappearing into the foliage. 

Martin pulled his shirt away from his chest, hoping that when he let it go and the fabric fell back into place, his chest would have disappeared. But he had no luck, and in his opinion his chest was even bigger than before. He was a boy, but he thought that he barely looked like one. He certainly didn't sound it, not with his voice. It wasn't high pitched exactly - back in school he had been in choir, and he had sung tenor - but it was still very clearly a girl's voice. When people looked at him they didn't see him, they didn't see Martin. If one bothered to look at him without knowing who he was, they would have said that he looked like a troublesome young lady. Or a lesbian, if one so decided to believe in stereotypes, though the truth is that Martin likes girls just as much as he likes anyone of any gender. That is to say, he doesn't. Martin was wholly asexual and aromantic, and that sort of nonsense with romance and sex didnt interest him in the slightest. And besides, he isn't a girl so being a lesbian is impossible.

The place that the two children lived turned out to be a little house on the corner of suburbia.

It was unassuming, a perfect lawn and white walls, and pretty flowers in the window. Martin’s house hadn’t been anything like that, it had been messy and unorderly, because how else was a home supposed to be when you had two small children and a chronically ill mother?

Cross was like Martin in the fact he only had one parent. His father was a kind man, one who had made it his life’s mission to cover his house in plants. This wasn’t by accident, but instead design. His father could hear the plants whisper, understood what they needed. It was said that he was the type of man with chlorophyll running through his veins.

The entire family was holistic.

Cross took Martin’s hand, pulling him into the backyard so they could come in through the backdoor. Cross understood Martin’s need to hide.

“Papá!” Cross called out when they got inside, leaving Martin on the mat and ducking his head down a hallway. “¡Tengo un amigo en casa!”

“¿Qué? ¿Por qué?” A man’s voice came from the other side of the house.

“La escuela!”

“¿Quiere algo de comer?”

Martin couldn’t understand Spanish, though he had taken a few classes in school. So, since he couldn’t follow the conversation, Martin glanced out the window instead. It was beautiful, he had missed being out of that base so fucking much.

Cross disappeared from view for a moment, but he came back with a smile, an old leather jacket, and a jigsaw puzzle.

“C’mon,” he said, wrapping the jacket around Martin’s shoulders. Martin hugged the leather as close to himself as he could manage. “I got this, fucking puzzle.”

“A puzzle?”

“I don’t got no video games.”

Martin grinned at him; he had never been one to like video games either. They set the puzzle up in the television room, and Martin learned that it was a photo of a cute, flowery cottage. They set out to put together the border of the picture first, searching for three sided pieces and the four corners that were eluding them. Cross spoke about school at first, the courses he was taking and the things he read about in his free time; the conversation turned then to his friends, who consisted of his little brother and someone he hadn’t seen in three years. He talked shortly about the punk scene, the injustice in the world. This was what got Martin talking, because he had spent his last few years of freedom in that environment, so had his brother.

And that was how they got to where they are now.

“So, you were really locked up?” Cross looked up from where he was putting together a flower. Martin froze, his hand in midair, holding a puzzle piece.

“Yeah,” he huffed.

“Why?” And then, in a quieter voice. “Because of, what we are?”

Silence.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.” Cross looked a little disturbed, turning back to the puzzle as Martin started to move again. “And, they fuckin’, hurt you?”

“Yeah?” Martin closed his eyes, contemplating what to say next as he went over the options in his head. “Fuckers killed my brothers and sisters. Did, do, experiments on me.”

“What, really?” Cross couldn’t focus on the puzzle anymore, he was watching Martin with wide eyes.

“Yea- they, did. I haven’t been outside in years.”

“Well, I’ll eat them for you. If they come and try to get you.” Cross grinned at him, and Martin couldn’t help but feel inexplicably safe. Cross wouldn’t leave him. He could feel it.

They were meant to know each other.

“Thanks,” Martin said with a smile. “Now, let’s finish this fucking puzzle before I die of old age.”

“You’re not that old!”

“I’m nineteen.”

This was new information to Martin. He had spotted a calendar on the wall in the hallway, and after a quick calculation he had been able to determine how old he was. Nineteen. Nineteen. He had been sixteen when he was taken, and now he was an adult. Legally, he should have been able to do anything, go anywhere, and instead he was hiding from the government.

“How old are you,” Martin asked idly.

“Fifteen.”

Martin blinked. Was he hallucinating? Yeah, the kid looked pretty young, but it hadn’t registered in his head until this exact moment. “Fifteen?”

“Yeah man!”

Holy shit, this kid was a baby. Martin needed to watch out for him. And after that, there was a shift in the dynamic of how they interacted. Martin was protective of him, he would be for the rest of his life.

The night fell quickly, and the darkness frightened Martin. It reminded him of an empty room, one with absolutely no light leaking in unless the door was open. He was alone, waiting, trying to use his sense of smell to detect any guards outside his door so that he could know to brace himself for more pain. Why was no one there? Why had his brother left him here, in the dark, helpless? Help, please, someone needed to help. Why was nobody-

“Hey,” Cross said, putting a hand on Martin’s back. “You good?”

Martin blinked. He was staring at a bedroom, one covered in artwork and star charts, one that was lived in and loved and called home. He looks at Cross and sighs; the darkness must have sent him into… something bad.

He doesn’t have the vocabulary for it yet, but he’s been triggered by it.

Cross jumped onto his bed, a laugh in his throat as he was bounced around and Martin closed the door. Martin forced a smile on his face, climbing up with him and staring in awe at the soft mattress.

“Are we friends,” Cross asks.

There was a silence between the two of them, because the truth was that they both knew the answer. Neither had ever been anything but alone despite the love of a family that both of them had experienced at one time or another. But their abilities made them fundamentally different, and so they stuck out like sore thumbs; they were the line that sepereated good and evil, chaos and order, and they weren’t designed to go about any of it alone. Martin glanced up and out the window. He stared up at the moon, round and full above his head and illuminating the streets.

“Yeah,” Martin said, “We’re friends.”

Cross was grinning again. He leaned to the side and pulled a backpack up from beside his bed. “Good. Help me with my homework, man.”

Homework. Martin was ashamed to admit that he missed it. He missed the simple, mundane stresses of school, the uncertainty of navigating the hallways and tumutulous social groups. So he helped Cross with his schoolwork - he was working on advanced chemistry; Martin had come to found that Cross was rather clever - and they sat there, chatting and laughing and working on incresingly difficult questions.

It was the simple, naive brand of entertainment that Martin had never had.

At some point, Crossn pulled some markers out of his backpack, and Martin learned something else about him; the kid was artistic, and pretty damn good at creating anything he set his mind to.

He pulled Martin’s sleeves up and over his elbows, his eyes lingering on the Incubus Symbol tattooed on his upper, inner arm. But Cross said nothing, perhaps realizing that it was a sensitive subject. Instead, he did something amazing.

It started with the black marker.

Cross dragged it against Martin’s skin, covering up the scars and connected the lines of the tattoo to form something wholly new and innocent. It looked like nonsense at first, a line placed here and a circle there. But it began to take shape after a while, and Martin watched in quiet awe as wreaths of flowers, ropes of vines and smiling suns formed on his arm. Then Cross grabbed more markers, bringing color to the forest of life that had been mapped out. 

It was starting to come to life. Yes, the forest on Martin’s arm was as real as any other.

The suns - there were three of them, each one smiling with wide, tooth-bearing grins - were glowing, lighting up the room in a soft yellow that was so unlike the harsh blue of his own abilities. The flowers whispered to one another, trading secrets in a language Martin couldn’t understand; he found himself wishing that he could whisper back, that he could translate those age old secrets to survival that the little flowers were sharing. The flowers opened their petals in response to this despite, their vines creeping up his shoulder and wrapping gently around his chest in an embrace. The simple, childish giddiness that it al gave Martin was outstanding, something he had never experienced.

And then it was over, the dream ending as fast as it had come. Martin turned his arm over to examine the picture Cross had drawn. It almost looked like the type of thing that really could come to life, but Martin was no dreamer.

No, it was silly to dream, and he had been naive to indulge in it.

Saturday dawned on them before they had time to react, golden sunlight pouring into the room and washing over them. Martin blinked in the face of the light, taken a little off guard by it.

Was it morning already?

“Come on.” Cross pushed his backpack off of his bed, standing up and taking a moment to stretch out his limbs. “I make waffles for Dad and my brother at like, eight or something.”

“It’s six.”

“Great! The earlier the better!”

The food proved easy to prepare, even when doing it from scratch. Martin had been making breakfast for the twins their whole lives, and he’d been making it for his mother even longer, so even though it had been a few years he still remembered how to do it. Cross grabbed plates from the cabinet at seven, setting them out on the table; Martin set the waffles down, and then the meal was complete.

Cross grinned from across the table. Martin grinned back.

And then Martin saw something glint in the sunlight from outside the window, on the other side of the street, and that was all it took for the world to end. There was no warning, no sirens. 

Nothing.

Just a small reflection of the light.

The window shatters in the very next second. Martin is the first to duck, crawling under the table and pulling a still standing Cross under with him. Cross is screaming, screaming. 

Of course he is, he was just shot at.

The first few agents that storm into the house drop like stones. There are four of them, and Martin lunges, taking the energy, the life from them; Cross, starting to understand what he was doing, followed suit and Martin learned that, along with being clever and artistic and all around nice, can throw a punch.

They killed four guards. They eat them.

But that’s all they can take before they’re accosted by a faceful of gas, before they hear the screams of a little kid. It’s Cross’ brother. And they never see the crime either, the murders, they just see the kid’s lifeless body. And then one of the guards poses to kill Cross.

Martin roars. He forces himself to his feet and throws himself at the guard, and a hot, tearing pain in his shoulder tells him he’s been shot. But that doesn’t matter now.

When Martin collapses again, Cross crawls over to him, laying next to him as the agents work in a storm around them. They’re going to be captured, taken to Blackwing, and Cross will have his freedom stripped from him. But for now they feel safe. For now they’re together. Martin closes his eyes, and he makes a promise.

One day, he’s going to burn Blackwing to the ground.

"You left-"

"It was an accident!"

"Bullshit!" 

Osmund throws his baton onto the ground. It hits the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Martin would flinch, usually, but this time that didn't happen; this time, it made him angry. He could still see the blood pooling out from behind the corner, he knew it belonged to one of Cross' family members. And it was all his fault, he had led Blackwing here.

He wouldn't let Osmund hurt Cross. He couldn't. It wasn't fair.

"I stuck my neck out for you," Osmund says, a growl in his voice, "You fucking ruined it! I could've gotta ya' out-"

"To what!? Become an agent?" 

Martin snaps at his brother. He hasn't come for him, not truly, since he killed their family. So it comes as a surprise to Osmund, who blinks at the teenager with disdain.

"Yes-"

"Oh yeah, 'cause the first thing I wanna do is work for the weirdos who experiment on me. What kinda-"

"- what do you think they did to me-"

"I'd rather die!"

Osmund's glare darkens. Martin realizes that, maybe, this isn't his brother. Maybe his brother died a long time ago, along with the rest of them. Maybe he never had one.

Because this agent here sure as shit wasn't it.

"You'll wish you had," Osmund says in a low voice.

Martin smirks.

"We'll see."

**1993**

He is nine years old.

The boy is waiting in the living room, rocking back and forth on his heels. There is something very important he needs to tell his mother, something that sounds weird and wrong to him, but that he knows is irrevocably true. The door in the front of the apartment opens, and he pushes his hair off of his shoulders.

Breathe, that’s what he needs to do.

Breathe.

“Mama?” The boy stands on his toes, his breath held in anticipation. “Vino aici, te rog.”

“Svlad? Unde eşti,” called his mother.

Svlad is technically his first name. It's a name that his mother had always gotten trouble for, because Svlad was supposed to be a girl, and that wasn’t a girl’s name. But his mother had insisted it was the right one, and she was correct in doing so. Like her son, she had a knack for knowing things she shouldn’t, for attracting the extraordinary. It ran in the family.

“Svlad?” His mother called for him again and then her head appeared around the corner. “Ce?”

"I, have-" The English felt strange in Svlad's mouth. He didn't like it; surely it would get better, with time. "To tell. Have to tell you."

Her face lit up. 

Moving to England had not been easy, but it had been necessary. Svlad hated it all, pushing away the foreign customs and strange little words. But he had to learn English, unfortunately; what a cruel language, and not at all convenient to use.

"You do? Well tell me." His mother moves closer, smiling, sitting down on the couch and watching her son carefully.

"I do."

But how does he tell her? Does he just say it? Was that how that went? Or was he meant to dance around it for hours on end, smiling, eating her into it all so that the chance of rejection was slimmer? But he was running out of time, he had been staring at her for thirty seconds, and he had virtually no options.

"Sunt un băiat."

And then silence followed.

Now Svlad's mother, she's a wonderful woman. She's smart - all redheads are, look at Loki - and she had known her child wasn't her daughter. She had known since before he was born that she would be having a son. So much better at her ability than Svlad, though they shared the same holistic trait… she knew he was her son, but she had figured it was polite to wait for him to figure it out and tell her. Now, with it out in the open, she smiled wider and stood, gesturing for the kitchen.

"Cake to celebrate! Boy cake."

"Boy cake?"

She took his hand.

"Boy cake."

**1994**

“Daddy,” the little girl says, clinging onto Greyson’s arm. “I don’t wanna go to bed!”

She calls him her dad, which breaks Greyson’s heart. He isn’t her dad, not really, he’s her uncle; he’s been raising her for so long though, he might as well be her father now. Her _mother_, Greyson’s sister, isn’t here to raise the girl and her baby brother. His sister is dead, buried, and the man who murdered her is walking free somewhere.

Greyson’s mother says it’s because they’re different.

She doesn’t mean their skin color, they’ve tackled their fair share of racism. No, she means something else, something deeper. She means the way Greyson can feed on the energy of the people around him, they way his sister and mother could cause things to multiply; she means the way Fenny and Grant are telepaths.

They’re holistic. They’re targets.

Greyson bends down, looking little Fenny in the eye. “You haven't gone to bed, sweet.”

“I don’t wanna!”

“I _know_, but ain’t nothing coming from not sleeping. You wanna go to school sleepy?”

The girl’s lips purse in a smile, and she shakes her head wildly, loosening her hair tie. Greyson can’t help but smile too.

“Come on, sweet,” he said, standing up and taking her hand. “To bed.”

“To bed!” Fenny runs in front of him, her arm out in front like she’s a superhero in flight, jumping past her door and into her room. On any other night, Greyson would he worried about waking the baby, but tonight Grant is crying for his mother, having trouble sleeping, so worrying is a lost cause.

In her room, Fenny crawls under her covers, poking her head out and grinning at Greyson. “I’m in bed!”

“You gonna sleep?”

“Maybe.”

Maybe, it’s always _maybe._ She’ll fall under, Grey knows that he only needs to give her a little time. He sits at the end of her bed, waiting until she gets comfortable to do anything.

“Right, now,” he says, his smile softening. “You wanted a story.”

“Yeah!” Fenny swats at the air. “A story! A cool one!”

Fenny loves stories with dragons, trolls, with blood and fighting, and she loves to listen to the ending, where everything calms down and the hero gets to marry her wife. Fenny has always been very adamant about the last part, and Greyson doesn’t mind.

He closes his eyes and tries to think of a proper story to tell.

-

_There was once a princess destined to lead. She was named after an old wolf, who was said to have once brought great destruction to the lands, and so her parents would not allow her to rule. Fenris, her name was, but the people called her Fenny._

-

“That’s me!” Fenny’s eyes light up, and Greyson hushes her.

-

_One day, a great war fell across the kingdom, and the princess’ father refused to fight._

_“‘Tis a lost cause,” said he, “I shall not fight.”_

_“But our people suffer and die,” Said the princess, her eyes widening in horror, “You must fight. We must protect what is ours.”_

_But the king refused again, and so did the queen. So the princess turned and left the room, and did not stop walking until she had left the castle. She had nothing with her, not a sword nor a scrap of food, but she was determined to do what her parents refused to. So she left. She did not run, and she did not ride any horses. She walked._

_She first came upon an old cottage, and inside she found a beautiful girl there. The girl was crying, ruffled and bleeding. _

_“What’s befallen you,” asked the princess, kneeling down in front of her._

_“The Trolls have taken what is mine,” whispered the girl, terrified. “They’ve killed my mother, I’m all alone.”_

_“You are not.” The princess reaches up, pushing the hair from the girl’s face. She is beautiful, the princess notes, moreso than any forgein suitor she has met. Her eyes are sparkling, her face is round and soft, and suddenly the stakes of the war feel a lot more personal. “I will fight for you. I will fight for us all.”_

_“Will you?” The maiden’s eyes find the princess’. _

_“I will. And when I return home, victorious, I will sweep you up and make sure you never want for anything again.”_

-

Greyson goes to continue the story, but he finds that he doesn’t have to. Fenny has fallen asleep, and she is lying peacefully in her bed. So Greyson, standing up, wishes her a goodnight. 

His mother is in the living room, singing to baby Grant as the kid calms down. He’s almost a toddler now, and it hurts Greyson’s heart to know that he won’t remember his mother at all; Fenny will barely have any memories of her either, she’s only seven. It isn’t fair, but Greyson doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s only twenty years old, not even old enough to drink, and he’s the legal guardian of two wonderful, tragic little kids. He’s not sure if he can even finish college, not when he has to look after these two.

Thank the gods for his mother.

His mother lives with them now, helping Greyson out as much as she can. Ever since her wife died she’s been bored, looking for something to do, and looking after two children seems to be healing her heart a little.

“Fenny’s in bed,” Greyson says, grabbing his old jacket from the coat stand. His mother smiles at him.

“Oh good, she’s got so much energy. Thought she’d never go down.”

“She listens to me.”

“You’re a good father.”

Greyson stops. There are tears in his mothers eyes, and he’s reminded again of his sister all too soon. She should be here, with her kids. She loved them.

She died to protect them from the intruder.

“Thanks, Mom,” Greyson says softly, wandering over to push the curls out of Grant’s face.

“Y’ gotta keep a good grip on life,” his mother whispered. She’s trying not to cry, to break down right here, because after a year the pain of losing her daughter is still too much to bear. “Get a _grip,_ keep yourself together.”

“I will.” Greyson is keeping the tears back, still smiling. “I’ll just be back, I gotta go to work.”

“Pick up some butter while you’re out,” says his mother, patting his shoulder. “I’ll stay and make sure they’re alright.”

Greyson nods, but when he gets to the door, he stops and looks back at the sight, at his mother rocking the little boy and singing. He’s got this terrible feeling in his stomach. He can _smell_ something is off, something isn’t right. Tonight, there’s something dangerous in the air, and he can only hope his family will be alright.

He leaves, closing the door behind him, and he never sees any of them again.

-

_The princess comes across a camp full of soldiers. They’re crying. Each and every one of them stands as she passes, in awe at the fact that she’s here. It gives them hope, makes them think that perhaps they have a chance after all._

_She goes to the general, slamming her hands on the table and glaring up at him._

_“I will help lead your army,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “I will fight with you, and defeat the monsters that threaten my people.”_

_“Princess Fenris.” The general bows, but he is displeased with this new development. “You cannot lead this army, you have no fighting skills.”_

_“Give me a sword,” she growls, “And I’ll show you who is skilled.”_

_A knight hands her his sword. It is heavy, hard to hold, but she manages to get a sense of it after a few minutes. She had fought with replica swords all her life, she can figure this out. The general brings her to the middle of the camp, and for a moment they stood there in silence._

_Then without warning the general strikes._

_The princess dodges it, jumping to the side and swinging her sword. It lodges itself in his arm and she pulls it back, this time aiming for his stomach. There’s a red hot pain on her shoulder, a hit, but she doesn’t stop, not until the sword had pierced him all the way through. He drops his own weapon, and he falls._

_“You’ve defeated me,” he whispers, “I don’t understand.”_

_“Understand that I will lead my people to victory. My army.” She stands above him victorious, glowering down at him with a look that could kill. And this time, it had. The general dies from his wound, and she pulls her bloodied sword out of his limp body._

_The soldiers are in shock, but they know they couldn’t be in better hands._

_And so the attack against the Trolls starts._

_The battle is hard, it’s bloody. There are awful smells everywhere, horrible screams and the forest is painted in red. But the princess does not let up, she tells her soldiers what to do and how to do it, and then quick as anything, she stands above the last Troll, her sword pointed at it._

_“You’ve made my people suffer,” she says, “My parents would have let you continue. Know that this kingdom is protected by me. I will rule when I return, keeping it safe, and I will teach my children to do the same.”_

_“Please, Princess Fenris,” the Troll begs, “Do not kill me.”_

_“I won’t. You will leave here, tell everyone you meet how we defeated your army. You will tell them that anyone who dares hurt my people will meet the same fate.”_

_The Troll agrees, and it flees in a terrified state. The princess then stands alone, victorious, and her remaining troops close in to get her back to camp._

_And then, after that, they are going to go home._

-

Greyson pauses on a street corner, glancing around him. There are no cars outside, and it strikes him as odd, because it’s only nine at night. Where have the other people gone? That same, dangerous smell is in his nose, and he’s on guard, ready to drain the life from whoever would dare try to attack him.

He continues on his walk to work, making his way down street after street. Still, he sees no one. Finally, he comes to a stop near the highway, frowning.

And he hears a gun cock behind him.

Greyson isn’t stupid. He puts his hands up, not daring to risk taking away his kids’ uncle from them as well as their mother. The person behind him laughs, and then more people come into Grey’s line of sight. They’re dressed tactical gear, guns at the ready and pointed at him.

This isn’t some random attack. This is something else.

This is something fucking malicious.

“Can’t believe we found another one of you,” says the person behind him. His voice is a sweet southern drawl, and it sends chills down Greyson’s back. “God damn parasites.”

“Put down the gun and I’ll show you how I work,” Greyson growls.

In the back of his mind, he hears his mother’s voice. Get a grip on your situation, she would say, take control and grip it tight.

The only problem is, he doesn’t have control right now. He inhales a face full of opaque gas, and it sends him falling to the sidewalk. Get a grip. _Get a grip!_

Gripps closes his eyes. He never sees the man with the southern accent, though he would later learn his name is Mr. Priest. But for now, he won’t give them the satisfaction of looking into their eyes, of seeing their hatred. There’s only one thing he wants to see now, and that’s his family, their faces, their smiles. He wants to hide in his mother’s arms. He wants to tell Fenny and Grant that they’ll be alright, and help them get up for school in the morning. Instead, he lies there, and soon he is knocked unconscious.

Greyson Chairon dies on the sidewalk, alone and terrified, and Gripps vows to never lose a family member again.

-

_The princess becomes a queen when she returns home._

_She finds that her father had died from worry, anxious about the fate of his own people. Her mother is following after him, bedridden and ill and dying. And so Princess Fenris is killed, she dies, and Queen Fenris becomes a fair ruler, one who protects the kingdom and all who live there. No one will ever be unjustly punished, or hurt, and no one will dare come into her kingdom with the intention of destruction._

_On the third day of the third month of her rule, the queen steps out of her castle, taking with her only a steed and a beautiful crown. ___

_ _ _She rides for an entire day, not stopping until she reaches a quiet little cottage. It’s neat and beautiful covered in flowers; it’s pretty enough to take a picture of, is one had a camera, or make a puzzle out of._ _ _

_ _ _The queen goes to the door, holding the crown in her hands._ _ _

_ _ _And then the door opens, and the maiden from months ago is standing there. She is oh so beautiful in the light of the setting sun, and the queen falls in love all over again. She falls to her knees, holding up the crown and begging her softly._ _ _

_ _ _“Please accept my hand,” she says, “Take this crown and be my queen. I want to make you happy for the rest of your days, and see your beautiful face when I wake up in the morning. I want to worship you and let you lead a wonderful life. Please take my offer, wear this crown, and I will give you everything you deserve.”_ _ _

_ _ _And the maiden smiles, taking the crown and turning it over in her hands._ _ _

_ _ _“I am Moira,” she says. “And I accept your offer, Fenris.”_ _ _

_ _ _The queen takes her hand, and the maiden puts the crown on her head. The two queens went on to be known as the strongest rulers the kingdom had ever had, the most in love._ _ _

_ _ _And that was truly a happy, happy ending._ _ _

_ _

_ _ **1995** _ _

_ _"Mom?"_ _

_ _Svlad walks into his apartment with a beaming smile. He's managed to make friends, he's managed to keep them for the first time, and now they've given him birthday presents. Real birthday presents! In one hand he holds a book titled _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ \- he has no idea what it's about, but oh, he's stay up reading it all night - and in the other he has a funny little clown doll. He squeezes it; it squeaks._ _

_ _He calls for his mother again as he closes the door and this time he gets an answer._ _

_ _A man. He is average height, his hair is brown, normal… but there's just a small streak of grey in it. He's wearing a uniform. Svlad doesn't recognize it. They come to q stop in front of each other, Svlad staring up with a determined glare and the man looking down with a kind smile._ _

_ _"You must be Svlad."_ _

_ _"Am not."_ _

_ _"Your mother has talked about you. She says you're a good son."_ _

_ _ _Son._ _ _

_ _The word echoes in Svlad's mind and he grips his gifts tighter out of the excitement, elation that runs through him. _Son._ Yes, he is his mother's son, her eldest and only _boy._ He nods._ _

_ _"My name is Scott Riggins," says the man, putting a hand on Svlad's back. "I'd love to talk to you."_ _

_ _"I wouldn't," Svlad says, jerked away from the man. He's too big, too _American_. He is untrustworthy. "Where's my mom?"_ _

_ _"She's sick, young man. In the hospital." Riggins gestures for him to follow into the living room, but Svlad isn't sure, he just isn't sure. Something tells him no, tells him to pull back and run and hide- "That ability she has sure does get her into trouble."_ _

_ _Svlad's stomach drops._ _

_ _He follows the man, angry and curious. How does he know? How does he know about them! His mother wouldn't tell anyone unless they were good people… so maybe this guy wasn't awful, right? He hoped so. Svlad drops his backpack on the couch, sitting down and staring at the man._ _

_ _"It… it does," Svlad says softly._ _

_ _"Does it get _you_ into trouble?"_ _

_ _There is a short, tense silence. "Yes."_ _

_ _"Well, now that's why your mother called us." Riggins smiles at him, and the smile is _kind_; Svlad can't help but trust him a little. "We're a very important organization, do you know that word? We help people like you learn how to control their abilities."_ _

_ _"I know that word, I'm not dumb," Svlad sneers. He doesn't, actually, he never git around to learning that word but he won't let this man make him feel stupid._ _

_ _"Great." Riggins leans back in the armchair, still smiling, and it puts Svlad a little at ease. "We'd like to help you."_ _

_ _"I don't need help. I'm good at it." _ _

_ _"At what? Do you know what it is, exactly?" Riggins raises an eyebrow, his voice is soft. "It gets you into trouble, doesn't it? It puts you into danger. It puts _other_ people into danger."_ _

_ _Svlad's breath hitched. "Well, it-"_ _

_ _"You're a nice boy, you don't want other people to be in danger, do you? You want to save them."_ _

_ _"Yeah-"_ _

_ _"We can help you, that's all we want. We want to help you keep the world safe."_ _

_ _"But I'm _not dangerous-_"_ _

_ _A hand landed on his shoulder from behind and his shoulder. Svlad stopped in his talking, the room having gone silent. Riggins didn't look at all frightened, but Svlad… all he felt was cold _fear_, running through his veins and freezing up. Something was very wrong. The universe wanted him to _run_._ _

_ _"Now, we're only tryin'a help ya'," said a soft, lilted southern accent. It… relaxed Svlad. This voice wasn't dangerous. _ _

_ _Svlad turned to look up at the man the voice belonged to. He was tall, fairly young and had a friendly face; he looked like he could be a neighbor or a teacher, he was trustworthy. The man smiles down at Svlad._ _

_ _"Hello."_ _

_ _"Hi."_ _

_ _"All we wanna do is help." The man walks around the couch, crouching down in front of Svlad and blocking Riggins from sight. "Young men gotta learn how to take care of themselves. You are a young man, aren't ya'?"_ _

_ _"Yeah." Svlad sits up a little straighter, pretending his chest, just starting to develop, isn't showing. "I am."_ _

_ _"Well, ya' know we could help ya' with that too. We can help ya' look like one," the man says softly, watching Svlad as carefully as possible._ _

_ _Svlad's heart stops for a moment._ _

_ _"Really?"_ _

_ _Riggins clears his throat. "Agent Priest an I only want what's _best_ for you-"_ _

_ _"And the people around ya'." The man - Priest, Mr. Priest - reaches up to pat Svlad's shoulder. _ _

_ _"I want to keep them safe," Svlad says, smiling at both of them. His mother wouldn't trust bad people. He takes his hands off of his lap, laying them on the couch._ _

_ _The couch is a dark color, so is the armchair, and so Svlad can't see the dark, dried blood spot where he has laid his hand. Priest knows it's there and he smiles, ruffling the kid's hair and standing up._ _

_ _"C'mon."_ _

_ ____ _

_ _He's clutching his plane ticket with shaking, sweaty hands, and there is a cry lodged in his throat that if it were to release, would not be heard over the commotion of the airport. He is supposed to wait here for the nice man Riggins… and his mother, he assumed. He couldn't very well fly without his mother. Svlad flinches when a hand touches his shoulder. He looks up._ _

_ _"Hello Mr. Priest," Svlad says softly. His voice is a very soft, very lilted Romanian accent with just a touch of british. It isn't very common._ _

_ _The taller man smiles._ _

_ _"Heya Svlad." Mr. Priest kneels down, looking Svlad up and down as he took in the boy's nervous appearance. "What's got ya' all worked up."_ _

_ _"The plane, Mr. Priest." Svlad offers part of a nervous smile. It's all he can manage. "Planes are very big. What if I get lost, and you can't find me?"_ _

_ _"Svlad."_ _

_ _Priest's tone is calm, his gaze is neutral. He reached up and pushes the hair out of his face. Possession. It wasn't kindness that prompted him to be so patient with the boy, but Svlad didn't know that. The only thing that would tip him off was the next line, a line he would hear over and over for the rest of his life. In his cell. His first and only escape attempt. Running for his life, away from the facility and into the black, harsh desert night. _ _

_ _Sixteen years later in an old, broken down house._ _

_ _"I will always find you," Mr. Priest whispered, smiling at the boy._ _

_ _And despite himself, Svlad smiled back._ _

_ _The board the plane. It's small and private, nothing at all like Svlad expected it to be, but he supposed these people probably had a lot of money. Once the doors closed, Priest took Svlad's bag out of his hands and dumped it into someone's arms. Svlad gave a cry of outrage, that was _his.__ _

_ _"Hey-!" _ _

_ _Priest reels back, and he slaps Svlad across the face._ _

_ _Svlad falls silent, a little breathless, unable to process what just happened. Priest hit him… but why was he kneeling down now, taking Svlad's hand? That wasn't mean. Did he really just hit him? Svlad could have imagined it._ _

_ _"You're gonna behave, right," Priest asks quietly. Svlad nods. "Good boy."_ _

_ _It occurs to Svlad, very briefly, that maybe the universe was right. Maybe he should have ran._ _

_ _But he wouldn't get that chance again for a long, long time._ _

_ _1996_ _

_ _"I spy," Cross said, laying on his cot and staring up at the wall. Gripps stuck his tongue out at him._ _

_ _"Nothin' to see."_ _

_ _"Totally is."_ _

_ _"Prove it."_ _

_ _"Boys."_ _

_ _Martin's voice quiets them down, and the two men look over, wondering briefly if there is something wrong. But they see nothing, so they nod and continue their conversation a little softer. Martin is sitting in the corner of the room, taking a stolen pair of scissors to his hair. It's getting long. As soon as his hair reaches below his ears, a strong sense of horrible, _terrible_ dysphoria overcomes him, so that is when he takes his stolen scissors and cuts his hair. The guards come and take it sometimes, knock them all out, but the nice little girl in the vents always beings it back._ _

_ _She's a nice kid. A little young, Martin worries about the children being kept here, but she seems to be able to take care of herself._ _

_ _He wonders why she stays, if she can go and become anything she wants. Maybe Blackwing have her convinced it's for the best, or maybe there is someone here she is protecting. All he knows is that she's been here for a long time._ _

_ _Just like him._ _

_ _Stuck forever. _ _

_ _A loud, blaring siren comes over their loudspeaker and every one of them cover their ears, Martin dropping his scissors. _ _

_ __Feeding time._ The door in the back of their cell will open, leading out to a large room where they can eat the meal they're being given. They were all hungry, their faces sickly and eyes sunken._ _

_ _They looked like proper vampires now._ _

_ _Cross stands first, then Gripps and then Martin. There is an unspoken teamwork, instinctual. _ _

_ _They're fucking _hungry.__ _

_ _Cross gestures to the door. Martin gets closer and the door starts to open, he _laughs,_ ready to scare whatever poor, criminal-_ _

_ _All three of them stop dead in their tracks. _Dead_. They can't move, don't want to, don't know how. Incubus gets fed _criminals_, that is their diet. Not this. They don't feed off of half asleep, worn out children propped up against the far wall._ _

_ _The boy is too small. Martin can't see properly without his glasses, so he assumes it's a boy. It's small, and there is a foggy flurry of red hair on his head. His arm is up and covering his face… wiping his eyes maybe? But there's something else, and Martin recognizes the familiar blurry outline of the girl in the vents next to him._ _

_ _"Mona?" Martin reaches out to Gripps so he doesn't trip over his own feet or run into the children, and Gripps takes his hand._ _

_ _"Shh." Yep. That's Mona._ _

_ _"Who's your friend?_ _

_ _"Svlad," Mona whispers. "He's scared."_ _

_ _Yeah, Martin can smell that. It made his mouth water. "Why're you outta your cell."_ _

_ _"They can't keep me there. I want to keep him safe." Ah, maybe that was why she stuck around. Martin took a sto closer, trying to focus on the outline of the new boy._ _

_ _Scared._ _

_ _They wanted them to _feed_ off of him. What if that killed him?_ _

_ _What if they didn't get anything to eat until they did?_ _

_ _Martin could handle not being fed, they had done that in his earlier years, they had kept him starved for months. Martin could go exactly five months, two weeks, and three days before he collapsed and was rendered immobile, he could go that long before he absolutely needed to feed again. So far it had been two weeks. But his boys… _they_ couldn't go hungry, Martin wouldn't let them. And so even though the boy sounds terrified - of fucking course he does, he was thrown in here with a bunch of guys who wanted to eat his emotions. He was a _child_, and no doubt Priest as psyched him up - Martin sighs. _ _

_ _"Gotta eat, boys."_ _

_ _But one day, he hopes he can protect this boy. One day._ _

_ _He deserves it._ _

_ _

_ _ **1998** _ _

_ _It started with a visit._ _

_ _Scott talked to Martin like he was a normal person, even used his name, his pronouns… it used to put a sense of awe in him, a sense of respect, but that was long gone. He hated him. He despised the man who was running the show, who was doing all of this… so when he came to visit, him and his family - yes, his _family_ \- had to be sedated. Martin lays on the floor propped against the wall, his breathing shallow and his vision a little blurry. Scott stands in front of him, looking uncomfortable._ _

_ _"We've been keeping something for you," he says after a moment, taking a step back from him just in case. "I don't know how you'll take it, but it's yours."_ _

_ _That's all he says, leaving then to let the three of them sleep off the drugs. They hate the feeling, all three of them, the sluggish cold that creeps through their veins as the sedatives do their work. _ _

_ _It makes them want to scream, but instead they fall into darkness. _ _

_ _Martin awakes first, then the others, and they all three sit there and stare at the ceiling. The riddle weighs on Martin. _ _

_ _ _We've been keeping something._ _ _

_ _He's skeptical. What had they done now? What torture had they dreamt up? The answer is a fairly simple one: _love_. Care that runs so deep it is ingrained in the three of them, always has been, because how can you not love one of your own? A little sound gets Martin's attention and he struggles to his feet, turning to the door, turning to see._ _

_ _He sees. He looks. The world shatters._ _

_ _Martin pauses, frozen and just a little bit frightened. Pushing the hair out of his face - because maybe it was just a hallucination from the sedatives - he blinks and looks again at the welded doorway. And yes, he had been right, his eyes did not deceive him. There... is a child there._ _

_ _He is too small, that is the first thing he notes. The little boy's uniform - Incubus - is just too big for him, and his eyes are red and puffy. He's been here for a long time, it's obvious by the old bruises on his face and his neck, even his little hands. It makes Martin feel sick, and the other two sitting on their beds fall silent._ _

_ _Incubus._ _

_ _Incubus!_ _

_ _Blackwing kidnapped a fucking baby._ _

_ _The kid can't be more than six, Martin estimates, maybe younger. He takes a step forward and the boy flattens against the wall._ _

_ _"Wer bist du," asks the boy, and Martin's blood runs cold._ _

_ _He can't speak English. He has no idea what's happening to him._ _

_ _The three members of Incubus combined speak four languages. They all can speak English; Cross can speak Spanish, and studied Ancient Norse in his free time as a teenager; Gripps can speak Romanian. None of them can speak German, and so not one of them understands the boy. The child continues to cower, and Martin tries futilely to think back to any words he might have picked up._ _

_ _"Martin," he says, pointing to himself. He points to Vogel._ _

_ _The boy snaps at him, lunges, tries to bite his finger. Martin pulls his hand back with a laugh, his skin lighting up with that familiar blue and he takes a bit of the boy's anxiety. The child watches him in awe, distrust._ _

_ _"Martin," he tries again. And then, in a quiet voice…_ _

_ _"Vogel." The boy points to himself. _ _

_ _Vogel. Martin knows that word. It means bird, in German, and it suits him. The boy is small and fragile, the oversized jumpsuit flapping like wings. He could take flight if he wanted to, he was already so nimble it probably wouldn't take much effort… _too thin_, Martin thinks. They haven't been feeding him properly. Vogel should be on a different feeding schedule than them. The boy crawls forward, baring Jo's teeth but no longer trying to hurt Martin._ _

_ _"Cross." Martin points to Cross, then to the other. "Gripps."_ _

_ _"Vater?" Vogel taps Martin's chest rather hard. "Vati und Papa. Der Mann mit dem Bart sagt, Sie können helfen. Papa kann helfen. Also bist du mein Vater."_ _

_ _Wow. Martin had no idea what that meant. He stared at the boy, a sad emotion blooming inside of him. This kid deserved better._ _

_ _They all did._ _

_ ___ _

_ _It took three days for Vogel to let any of them touch him, but once he did, they were all done for. Vogel was six, they had found out, and he loved to be held. His favorite activity was crawling into their lap, curling against them and falling asleep. He liked stories, even if he couldn't understand the meaning of it all. _ _

_ _"Was ist das?"_ _

_ _Vogel pointed to one of the cots. Vogel repeated this phrase often, always in a questioning tone, and they had decided it meant something along the lines of _what is that, tell me what it is, what is it called?__ _

_ _"Bed," Martin said, trying to keep his answer simple._ _

_ _"Bed," repeated Vogel in a heavy accent. It might fade with time, but they hoped it didn't, they hoped he didn't lose that part of himself._ _

_ _"Bed."_ _

_ _"Was ist das?" Vogel pointed to Martin._ _

_ _"Martin."_ _

_ _And the kid shook his head. That wasn't the right answer apparently, but he had no better one so they were at a standstill. Vogel stared for a few seconds longer, and then seemed to give up._ _

_ _He settled back down._ _

_ ___ _

_ _"Story," Vogel whispered into the dark cell. Nighttime. They should all be sleeping… none of them could manage it. "Story."_ _

_ _Gripps took up the job tonight. He tells of a princess named Fenny, how she saved her people and fought a war. Vogel doesn't understand as much as he would like, but he knows a select few of the words. _ _

_ _It has been three weeks._ _

_ _Project Incubus has become unstable, dangerous. They are bent on protecting the boy, now, nothing else; their own health doesn't matter compared to keeping this boy safe. It's instinct, the need to protect their own. They are unique, none others like them._ _

_ _Gripps feels little hands catch his in the dark, and then Vogel has crawled onto his bed, curling under his blanket to hide from the darkness. Gripps wraps an arm around him, and Vogel flaunts a new word he has learned._ _

_ _"Safe."_ _

_ _It warms the hearts of the three older men like nothing before, and they realize phat they might be a family, it might be true._ _

_ _"Hell yeah," Cross said in a croaking, worn out voice. Vogel repeats him and earns a laugh from everyone._ _

_ _"Vater," he whispers, tapping Gripps. "Vati und Papa."_ _

_ _The three of them have learned those words, now, they know what it means. It makes them cry, almost, wondering how Blackwing could hurt such a small, precious little thing._ _

_ _"Hell yeah," Cross says again, quieter._ _

_ _Father._ _

_ _Dad._ _

_ _And daddy._ _

_ ___ _

_ _Vogel is small still, but he's grown in the three months he's spent with his new friends. He eats more often, feels better, and is starting to understand the guards. But this… he doesn't understand this. He doesn't understand why the boy with the red hair cowers away from him when he just wants to play._ _

_ _"Play," Vogel says, gesturing wildly to the boy in the corner. Daddy shakes his head, his hair swinging wildly. Dad has hair like that too, but he looks different, he's paler than Daddy._ _

_ _"Food."_ _

_ _"Play?"_ _

_ _"Food."_ _

_ _"Why?"_ _

_ _None of his dads can answer the question. Father says something but Vogel can't understand the sentence, and he screeches in frustration, stomping the ground. The red haired boy makes a frightened sound… fear. Vogel can smell it, he's hungry. Maybe he is food after all._ _

_ _But one day, they will be friends. They will be._ _

_ _One day there will be no more food._ _

_ _

_ _ **2000 ** _ _

_ _No one will ever know that it was all Svlad's fault._ _

_ _He had gotten hurt again, and Mona, being the sweetheart that she was, hid in his vents until the guards went away. It was then that she swooped down, examining his injuries form the test he had taken and starting to cry. This wasn't fair, she was thinking, and that was what started it. When the sirens started to sound, every subject wakes up, every subject looks to the red lights overhead._ _

_ _Project Incubus jumps from their beds. The eldest holds the youngest in his arms, and they're all staring in awe as the door to their cell opens. The power has failed the base._ _

_ _They can _run.__ _

_ _Project Marzanna isn't very perturbed by it. They can leave whenever they want, but they figure that since everyone else is leaving, maybe they could too. It can't hurt _them,_ only other people, and the people they hurt deserve it. So Project Marzanna leaves their cell, grabbing a discarded baton from the hallway floor and grinning._ _

_ _Lamia is running, flying back to Icarus, who is still hurt and exhausted. She wraps her arms around him, helping him to stand, and together they walk out of the cell._ _

_ _"Mona?" Svlad looks around with wide eyes. They're being jostled every now and then, subjects running by and guards too, who are ignoring them in pursuit of bigger targets._ _

_ _"You're not being hurt anymore," Mona whispered. Her eyes are set, she's determined to see this through._ _

_ _"Mona, what did you do?"_ _

_ _She turned off the power. If she were to ever tell someone what she had done, she would have told the truth; she had meant only to get Svlad out of there. But once Project Incubus was free, they began to wreak havoc. They had two goals, and that was to get their youngest member out safe and sound and cause as much damage as they could in the process. Instead of a simple jailbreak, Blackening was falling._ _

_ _But that was how it should be, anyway._ _

_ _Incubus and Icarus have never come to good terms, every interaction they've had has been designed to be horrifying, and that pattern will continue for almost two decades after this night. Tonight though, no one follows that pattern. Tonight the subjects are working together, because no one deserves to be in Blackwing. Projects who otherwise hate each other work in harmony, put together parties of perfect, organized chaos on the off chance they can get themselves and others to freedom. This is what happens with Icarus and Incubus. Mona carries Svlad as far as she can, but she's still a child, and she isn't very strong. When she drops him, as was bound to happen, steady hands catch the boy and become red with the blood on his jumpsuit._ _

_ _"God," says the person who caught him. Svlad knows the voice, it's Incubus One. "What happened?"_ _

_ _"He got hurt!" Mona squeaks in fear, but she isn't scared of Martin. No, she can hear guards not far behind them all._ _

_ _"I see that."_ _

_ _Martin bends down to pick the boy up, because he may hate the kid, but he isn't going to leave him here. Cross is carrying Vogel, and Gripps is standing in between the two older subjects with a broken metal pipe. _ _

_ _They all look terrifying, out for blood._ _

_ _Martin doesn't let go, and neither does Svlad, allowing him to carry him down the hallways. Svlad wonders for a moment how he knows the way out. Can he smell I? Has he seen it before? All very good questions, though he'll never get the answers._ _

_ _Svlad won't remember this. He'll claim later that he was too out of it, too tired, too hurt. None of this is true, but he doesn't know the real reason; the trauma of what happened as they tried to leave._ _

_ _This type of trauma always, without a doubt, took the form of Osmund Priest._ _

_ _Incubus tumbled to a halt. He is standing there, and his gun is trained at Martin. Martin growls at him, pulling Svlad away-_ _

_ _The gun follows._ _

_ _Martin had gotten it wrong, Osmund wasn't aiming for him. He was aiming for the kid, and Martin saw red. He saw his baby siblings, the little helpless things, trusting their eldest brother even when he slit their throats. The kids had _loved_ Osmund to their very last breath._ _

_ _He fired. Martin roared._ _

_ _He _missed.__ _

_ _Svlad wasn't hit, but he was shaken. He scrambled out of Martin's arms, grabbing Mona's hand to take her away from the gunfire. Osmund fires again, and he misses, because now Mona has turned into a large bird of flight, pulling Svlad away. He fired again, but Svlad is gone. _ _

_ _Within half an hour, he'll pass out from blood loss, and it will be a miracle that a local witch will save and heal him. Those sorts of things always happened to him. The universe did not want him dead._ _

_ _Martin, now empty handed, lunges at his brother, and they both tumble to the ground._ _

_ _The others race ahead, forcing open the door of an abandoned van in the parking lot and setting Vogel inside. Martin is on top of Osmund, holding the gun to his head without much thought as to how he got it. He wants to fire, he _should,_ it's the right thing to do._ _

_ _Vogel calls his name. He's crying._ _

_ _And Martin never pulls the trigger._ _

_ _He rolls off of Osmund, who lays there half unconscious and in a fit of laughter. They leave the man behind, and Martin throws the gun as far as he could manage._ _

_ _He doesn't know how to drive, but he figures that he can work it out. It's slow going, at first, it's rocky, but he gets the hang of it. And then Blackwing is behind them, nothing but a spot of light in the far distance of the desert. They're alone. Martin starts to drive faster; his family can smell the fear on him. Oh, he'll never admit to being scared, but he undoubtedly is._ _

_ _Vogel opens his eyes, staring up at the darkness of the van. "Back in room?"_ _

_ _"No," Cross says as softly as he can, "Going away from that place."_ _

_ _"But, dark." Vogel swats at the air much like a cat, trying to chase away the darkness._ _

_ _"Won't be forever, baby bird," Gripps says, running his fingers through the kid's hair. "Give it time."_ _

_ _"Time." Right… Vogel knew that word._ _

_ _He turns, curling up in Gripps' lap to feel a little safer, and Gripps wraps his arms around him to make sure he doesn't fall. They drive in silence after that, trying to make it set in that they're free. _ _

_ _Free, they can do whatever they want, go anywhere. It's enough to make them smile._ _

_ _And finally, they do. They smile._ _

_ _They're _happy.__ _

_ _Hope is a dangerous thing. It can tear someone apart, rip them up until they're barely recognizable and meaning in pain. But somehow, they kept the smallest piece of it, and it blossomed into opportunity. Hope is indeed dangerous, but it can, sometimes, be a shot at life. And so they drive, hoping, knowing they'll be okay._ _

_ _They drive as far as they can fucking go._ _


End file.
